


Working Christmas

by EliMorgan



Series: Shots and Shorts [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Christmas Tree, Enchanted Wonders 19, Explicit Language, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Mentions of loss, Neptune's Trident, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliMorgan/pseuds/EliMorgan
Summary: Auror Ronald Weasley loses the Ministry-wide lottery and finds himself landed with a guest for the holidays.A muggle guest.
Relationships: Ron Weasley/Clint Barton
Series: Shots and Shorts [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1073289
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8
Collections: Enchanted Wonders Holiday Collection 2019





	Working Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> **I do not own the works made use of herein, none of the Harry Potter/Marvel universe features or characters belong to me. I make no money from this work.**
> 
> Hi!
> 
> This piece was written for MMF's Enchanted Wonders event, 2019! I was prompted 1) Christmas Tree and 2) Neptune's Trident.
> 
> This was supposed to be funny, then it went in an entirely new direction I'm not completely comfortable with. As for Clint's family, you can fill in the blanks yourself - are they divorced? Beheaded? Died? Who knows. I'm not specifying, that would ruin Christmas.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Eliza x
> 
> (Muse is on holiday, I'm not sure what this is.)

Christmas was, without a doubt, Ron's favourite time of the year. Rich foods, endless opportunities to snack without judgement, twinkling lights and fights over decorations. He was on call over the  _ actual  _ holiday _ ,  _ being Senior-Auror-In-Charge, but his mum kept all of her leftovers under a stasis charm and fought tooth and nail to keep the mountain of food intact for him, so he didn't mind all that much when going to work meant rolling up to the Burrow at three a.m., appearing a hero and looking forward to several uninterrupted hours of binging. 

Even the office traditions, lame in everyone else's office, were something amazing when it came to the Aurors. Their secret santa was  _ actually  _ secret, and full of intrigue and mystery. Newbies got the usual gifts of chocolate and firewhiskey, but it was tradition amongst the veterans of the department that they would get a lucky bag from the evidence stores. Last year, Ron had been gifted an Apparating Rug, one man's answer to the magic carpet ban. 

(Harry had gotten a talking puppet, but that was a story for Samhain.)

This year, however, Kingsley, in his infinite wisdom, had decided that the Auror Corp didn't need to do Secret Santa. Oh no. He'd come marching into the office in the way that only a former Auror who'd gone up in the world could, and, with a grin, had shaken a hat at them. 

"This year, we're doing things a little differently," he'd boomed. "Everyone will pick a slip of paper from this hat. All of them are blank, but one! The winner of that none-blank ticket will be participating in a once-in-a-lifetime cultural exchange with our allies over in the states."

Or something along those lines. Ron hadn't really been listening. He never did when Kingsley came out with a new Brilliant Idea™, not since the great Raspberry Debacle of 2007.

That was probably how he ended up getting the ticket, in hindsight. 

Mechanics aside, after a week of briefing and debriefing and yet more briefings, he'd found himself on the roof of the (New & Improved!) Ministry building, watching a strange, triangular jet touch down. 

"Do be gentle with him," Kingsley said, from a couple of feet away. "According to his files he's a gentle soul, who has been through a lot of traumatic experiences. I chose you for this because of your prior experience with possession--" 

"Hang on, mate," Ron said, turning on his boss. " _ Chose?! _ I thought it was random! _ "  _

"Is anything truly random?" Kingsley quipped whimsically, and Ron had to restrain himself from punching the prick. Even then, it was only the whir of the jet door opening that prevented him from unleashing a heated reply that might, at least, have gotten him out of this 'cultural exchange'. 

"Hello!" Kingsley bellowed, marching forward with his hand outstretched. "We spoke through the Floo, I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt."

There was a clattering from within and a tousled blonde head poked out from within. "Yeah,the fireplace thing, right - give us a sec." He disappeared, and more clattering sounded, followed by a woman's voice. Ron wasn't sure what she was saying, but it sounded like "shut your stupid mouth and get out there, jackass. _ "  _

Summarily, the man was ejected from the door, not stumbling as he hit the floor but still spinning around to scowl at the jet. The door slammed shut, and a whirring sounded before it suddenly picked itself up and whipped away. 

Kingsley was still stood, his hand hovering in midair, somewhere around the man's shoulder. Rolling his eyes, Ron stepped forward to pick up one of the bags that had tumbled out with him. "Y'alright, mate?" he asked, stepping into his eyeline. "Ron. Ron Weasley. You'll be spending Christmas with us, I reckon."

"She can be so…  _ mean, _ " the man huffed, gripping a strap wound over his chest. Patting it reassuringly, he turned to Ron. "Hi. I'm Clint."

"Clint works for SHIELD," Kingsley explained, still not having given up hope for that handshake. "He's an Avenger. Hawkeye."

"Ah. That's… Nice." Ron smiled, awkwardly. He knew that the Avengers existed, but since Hermione fucked off with the big green one, he hadn't really paid much attention. He shot Kingsley a warning look. "Well. My mum's given us a bit of a list, so if you don't mind, we're on a schedule…"

* * *

Clint greeted the Burrow with delight, his eyes widening and a grin stretching his cheeks. "This is awesome," he gushed, if a man like that could gush. "How does it stay up?" 

"Magic," Ron grunted, flashbacks of their latest foundation reinforcement ceremony whipping through his mind. "You don't want to know, pal, trust me. I wish I didn't know."

"Whatever it is, it's brilliant."

"Yeah." He'd seen his mum naked. "Sure."

There was no-one in the living room, which was expected - they wouldn't be back until that evening, giving Ron time to settle Clint in. He showed the man to his childhood bedroom in the attic, still obnoxiously orange, and then dragged him immediately downstairs and began to go through boxes. 

"What are we doing?" Clint asked, stood behind him with his thumbs hooked in his pockets, rocking back and forth gently. 

"Decorating the Christmas tree before everyone gets back," Ron replied, pulling streams of battered tinsel from the bottomless chest. A flick of his wand set the stuff to rights. "Do us a favour, bring over that lot of boxes."

Together, they pulled all of the boxes into the centre of the room and toward the tree, which stood tall and grand in the corner, casting an imperious shadow over the rest of the living room. Ron cast repairing charms with abandon - he and his siblings often offered to replace the tree decorations, but his mother wouldn't hear of it. Apparently these ones had 'sentimental value'. He pulled out baubles badly etched with their names and decorated heavy-handedly with glitter, scary-looking snowmen with lopsided noses, and varying strings of nuts just on the right side of rotting. Ron, as was tradition, took his time, separating the goods into piles and hanging them one by one, stepping back to admire his work every few minutes. 

He was so involved in the task that it took him a while to realise that Clint didn't seem to be getting in the spirit of things. 

Turning his head, he frowned at the man where he sat cross-legged on the floor, rolling something between his hands. His head was bowed, making it difficult to see his expression, but even Ron could tell that he didn't seem to be in the festive spirit. 

"Y'alright, mate?" Ron asked, awkwardly, letting Ginny's bauble - a hideous thing he was definitely putting at the back - fall to the floor. With any luck, it would smash. 

The other man tilted his face up, blinking as if coming out of a trance. "What-oh. Hey."

"Hi," Ron replied, raising an eyebrow. "Where'd you go?" 

He gave a tiny shrug, before climbing to his feet and hiding whatever it was in his sleeve. "This isn't what I expected a Wizarding Christmas to look like. You must have a massive family."

"Something like that." At Clint's look, he smiled. "Mum and Dad have seven kids, and between us we have - oh, about eleven grandkids? And there's wives and husbands and partners. This place gets pretty packed at Christmas."

"Jesus," Clint swore. "That's a lot of kids. Did they tell you I'm not good with kids?" 

"They didn't tell me much," he frowned. "Now I'm thinking about it, it doesn't make much sense, sending you here. We're not special - we cook a goose and open presents and spend time with family."

"Goose is weird."

"Shut up, turkey dinner."

Clint let out a snort, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "'s Nat's idea," he admitted, taking whatever it was out of his pocket and tossing it between his hands once more, juggling it with quick, deft movements. "She got tired of me moping around the compound. Wants me to get out more."

"And a family Christmas is 'getting out'. Yeah, I see that." Ron looked at him queerly but didn't press the subject. Instead, he reached out and snatched away Clint's ball while it was in midair. It felt gritty and strange, and Clint let out a grunt of protest, but that didn't stop Ron from charming it to the tree. "No balls in the house," he said grimly, before turning to the stairs. "C'mon, I forgot the star."

* * *

"I've heard about you," Clint said, now perched on his childhood bed as they combed through battered old boxes for the star. "Hermione talks about you a lot."

Ron fought back an immediate urge to scowl. "Yeah?"  _ Don't see why.  _

"Yeah." He could feel the man's eyes on him. "You and Harry, but Harry visits."

"I'm busy," Ron snapped, shoving another box in the man's direction. "You know how it is - I'm saving the world, one granny with an exploding wand at a time."

“She said that, too,” Clint murmured. “You have better things to do, and all that. Only, you don’t reply to the owls, not even the wedding invite.”

Ron’s hand clenched around air, the knick-knack he’d been examining crushed to dust in his grip. He wasn’t strong, it was just old. The evidence of his lack of strength lay back in his own flat, gathering dust on the windowsill.

“Did Kingsley put you up to this?” he demanded, turning on the man. Clint was determinedly rooting through his box, not looking up, and that only angered Ron more. “Oh yeah, great plan - send me home with some twat, make it an assignment, so that I can’t tell him to fuck off when he rightfully deserves it?!”

Clint blinked innocently, finally turning his face up to Ron, and in his face Ron could see a ghost of the cheeky child he must once have been. His eyes were disconcertingly bright, and they did something to Ron that made him mad. “Did I hit a nerve?”

“Little bit,” Ron snapped. 

“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “I found the star.”

He lifted his hands from the box, cupping something in them, and raised it in triumph. Ron stepped forward to take it from him, but was stymied by a blinding light bursting from it, and the sudden crash of thunder. “Shit,” he heard Clint swear, before all sound and sight was swallowed by a crash of blue that sent both men to the floor.

* * *

“I’m fine!” Ron shoved Clint’s wandering hands away as he came to. “What happened?”

He couldn’t see anything new, but that meant nothing with magic - nothing was often  _ worse  _ than finding a dragon in the room. Nothing meant that whatever was coming had to gather itself. Clint was stood in the middle of the room, examining some sort of spear, but that was - 

“Put that down!” Ron screamed, lunging for Clint in a sudden panic. He dropped the spear, sending another bolt of blue light through the wall and drawing a growl from the world.

And Ron meant, the world. It seemed the air itself thickened and pressed against him, howling in his ear. He stared, horrified, at the ‘star’.

“Did I do that?” Clint asked, pointing outside. Ron didn’t even want to look, not after hearing the note of sheer terror in Clint’s voice. 

A wall of water was approaching across the fields at speed, swallowing everything in its path. Trees and sheep and even the barn from the local nativity bobbed across its surface. Ron choked.

* * *

Ron had never been good in stressful situations. He liked to think he’d grown since second year and the whole Aragog thing, but at heart he was still about twelve when it came to the big bads. Dark Wizards were fine, dragons were fine, but arachnids and, it turned out, not-so-natural disasters were where he drew the line.

He was on the roof, waiting for reinforcements. Or, replacements. Aurors had come immediately at his call, and claimed to have the situation under control… but did they? Sure, they’d gotten all of the living creatures out, and the tsunami had slowed, but that wasn’t reassuring, not at all. Didn’t they slow before crashing? He wasn’t certain. He lived in  _ England _ , for Merlin’s sake - he’d never considered it!

Thankfully, Clint had snapped out of whatever fugue he’d been in all day and was merrily shooting arrows at the many and various things that surfaced on the wave. Ron deeply resented how calm he appeared, considering this was his fault, and he said so.

“Is it really?” Clint replied, quirking an eyebrow. “You were the one who gave the muggle the box of magical things.”

Well, yes. But - 

“I didn’t know Neptune’s Trident was in there,” he sulked. 

“How did you lose Neptune’s Trident?!”

“Look - it’s a long story, but basically last year’s Secret Santa - no, I’m not talking about this when there’s a fucking wave coming to kill us! Oh Merlin, Mum’s going to kill me if it falls. Do you know what went into building this house?!”

There was a long beat of silence, before Clint said, in a faintly admiring voice, "you and your friends give each other contraband for Christmas?" 

"Well it's better than leaving it around where any bugger can find it, innit?" Clint rolled his eyes significantly in the direction of the tsunami, and Ron scoffed. "How was I to know I'd have an idiot over for Christmas?!" 

“Hey, now that’s just rude. I am charming.” Clint laughed when Ron swiped at him, but Clint was perched far higher on the roof than Ron - presumably, so that Ron couldn’t  _ kill him _ . His attempt simply had him wobbling precariously until he could find his feet again. “How did you get Neptune’s Trident in contraband, anyway?”

“Not even Gods are exempt from the law,” Ron replied, to Clint’s amusement. “He can have the bloody thing back. I’m not dealing with this.”

“Oh, yes you are,” a threatening voice said from behind them, sending Ron jumping so high that Clint had to catch him to stop him from falling. His arms felt strong and safe around him, but not nearly enough to stop him from shrinking away from the enraged face of Molly Weasley, where it poked through the skylight. She narrowed her eyes at him and the tsunami had nothing on the fear  _ that  _ provoked. 

“Ronald Bilius Weasley,” she said, in that low, scary voice he hated. “You had  _ one job.  _ What did I say? ‘Decorate the tree’, I said, I believe. What part of that meant ‘flood Devon’, I ask you? No, do tell me, I’m  _ fascinated!” _

Embarassingly, he couldn’t articulate anything past a whimper. His mother didn’t seem to find that satisfying, for she continued, her voice laced with menace enough to remind him who had killed Bellatrix Lestrange.

“ _ I  _ will be finishing the tree.  _ I  _ will be entertaining your guest. And what will you be doing?”

“Cleaning up?” 

“Cleaning up,” she agreed. “And if you finish that before the new year, maybe I’ll save you some cake.”

Abruptly, the fury melted from her face and she turned a maternal smile on Clint, who had been silently shaking with laughter behind Ron. He didn’t quite want to admit how nice that felt, that or the way he was absently soothing a thumb over his shoulder.

“Ah, you must be Clint! So lovely to meet you, dear. Come on inside, you can have Ron’s old room, he won’t be using it - I’ve brought home some leftovers, too, if you’d like some? And I found the star, too. Come along, love, we’ll get you warm.”

With one last poisonous look at Ron, she disappeared, and Ron crawled down off the roof into his bedroom. Clint followed, a smug grin on his face. “Mums love me,” he said, brushing dust out of his hair. 

“Wish she loved me,” Ron snorted. “Thanks for that,  _ mate.” _

“She does love you.” He frowned pensively. “You know, if you  _ do  _ finish before New Year, when I go back…”

Ron froze. “Yeah?”

Clint’s eyes strayed to the window, but Ron didn’t think he was seeing anything. “Maybe you could entertain me. Today wasn’t so bad, considering.”

Filtering through the words and the subtext took a moment, but Ron got there in the end. He wasn’t  _ that  _ dense. 

“I might not be ready to… entertain you.” Hermione still cast a large shadow over his life, if only through bitterness.

The other man gave an equally bitter smile. “You know, any other year, I would be decorating the tree with my family about now. There would be fighting and shouting and just… lots of love. But now there isn’t.” He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “We all have our issues, Weasley. Me more than most. But you can’t let it stop you from living.”

Outside, there was a thunderous groan, and the water exploded outwards into vapour. Indoors, Ron met Clint’s eyes, and an understanding formed between them.

“Sure. I’ll... We’ll go out. But you leave the bow at home.”


End file.
